


The Lesser Evil

by Artemis024



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis024/pseuds/Artemis024
Summary: Summary: John and Sherlock have a conversation on why Sherlock smokes.   Set after season three.Warnings: Dark themes; mentions of drug use and depression.  Warnings may change if I end up changing this to a multi-chapter fic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a couple years ago on fanfiction.net, but thought I should post it here too.  
> This is my first Sherlock story, but I have many more that I would love to write!

John was sitting on his chair, trying to read the morning paper, but couldn’t concentrate. Every couple minutes, a plume of smoke would appear, followed by a deep cough from the lounging body on the sofa. After about a half hour of this, John had finally had enough.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” he asked, with a bite to his tone.

Sherlock rolled his gaze towards the doctor and responded, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The silence was so deafening that John could hear the crackle of paper and tobacco as Sherlock took his next drag.

“Smoking, Sherlock. Your cough is from smoking.”

“It’s the dry air.” The sentence came out fast as Sherlock’s chest rumbled again.

John could see the discomfort in his friend. Coughing like that regularly was painful, both for Sherlock to experience, and for John to watch. As John kept his eyes on Sherlock, the detective launched into a complete coughing fit, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows and get more air.

Rushing to his side, John’s doctor instincts kicked in. He grabbed the cigarette and extinguished it in the nearby ashtray, already full of butts. Crouching down, he helped Sherlock lean forward, ignoring the protests.

“Yeah,” John responded sarcastically, “This is just dry air. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because you have already smoked almost an entire pack before noon.” The coughing continued, and John handed Sherlock his tea. “Drink something before you make yourself sick from hacking up a lung.”

Thankfully Sherlock complied. After a couple small sips, the coughing fit seemed to have stopped. The detective pushed himself into a full sitting position. He looked at his friend, annoyed by the look of concern he received in return.

“It’s nothing. Maybe just the beginning of a cold.”

John sighed and stood. “I’m going to make you some food. Toast okay?” He started toward the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry,” came the sharp response. Then came the sound of a lighter igniting another cigarette.

Turning toward the couch again, John said, “Of course not. You’re never hungry. But it’s been two days since I’ve seen you eat, and I doubt you’ve had anything while I’ve been out.”

“The food will just go to waste.” Sherlock finally stood. His dressing gown fell open and John could see his pajamas hanging loosely on his body.

“Yeah, well,” John continued to the kitchen, “Right now your body is going to waste. You’ve lost more weight, Sherlock. What are you, eleven stone?”

“Thereabouts. I don’t check often. No need.” Sherlock tied his dressing gown, suddenly self-conscious about John’s concern.

“You know, the next thing to go is your mind. You can’t sustain healthy brain function as an anorexic.” He started fussing around, preparing food, and noticed that Sherlock had followed him and was now sitting at the kitchen table, trusty ashtray at his side. At least that was progress. If the detective truly wasn’t hungry, he would have shut himself off in his room like the childish man he was.

“Come on, John. You know I’m not anorexic.” Another cough came from the table, but John could tell that Sherlock was trying to stifle it.

“You know,” the doctor said as he put a glass of water on the table for the younger man, “Nicotine is an appetite suppressant. Maybe if you quit smoking, you’d be hungry sometimes.”

For this he received another eye roll. “I’ve told you already. Digestion slows me down.”

John dropped the butter knife he had been holding, creating a clatter on the counter. He turned and glared at the detective and snapped, “You and I both know that’s bullshit,” before turning back to the food.

The two men were silent for the next couple minutes. Sherlock was well aware that he had upset his friend yet again. But as a self-proclaimed sociopath, he did not want to admit that this bothered him. Finally the food was ready and the plates were set.

After John had seated himself and Sherlock had attempted a small bite of toast, the detective looked across the table and asked, “Does my smoking bother you?”

With a sigh, John’s face softened. It was rare that Sherlock inquired about the thoughts and feelings of others. This question seemed genuine, although the cigarette continued to burn in the ashtray. John put down his fork and replied, “I’m sure you know I don’t enjoy it.”

“But does it bother you?”

Both men examined each other. Without thinking, Sherlock picked up his cigarette and took a drag.

With another sigh, John said, “Yes. It does.”

Realizing what he had done, Sherlock looked at his hand and quickly put out the cigarette. “I’m sorry.”

This apology confused John. Never had Sherlock sincerely apologized to him before. Well, with the exception of the hospital roof… No. Best not to think of that again.

“I just…” John struggled to think of the words. “I just worry about you, is all. You don’t take care of yourself. I know you’re not anorexic, but you barely eat. You never sleep. And although I knew you smoked on occasion, recently it has become a more than regular habit. I mean, as a doctor I understand how difficult it is to stop smoking. I do, really. But I don’t understand why it has escalated so much recently.”

Sherlock rubbed a hand through his hair, gathering his thoughts. “You might be surprised, but up until right before I met you I smoked like this. Before that, it was even more. A side effect from rehab I suppose.”

John’s heart dropped. Never before had Sherlock told him about his experience in rehab. The topic, in fact, had never been mentioned between them. He knew bits about it, mostly from passing remarks said by Mycroft and Lestrade. But they had always been vague, as if talking about it hurt too much. And John had always been too afraid to ask, believing that it was prying and that Sherlock would assume it was to report back to his brother. John never wanted to bruise any trust that they shared.

Sherlock was not dumb. He watched as his friend stopped eating and averted his eyes. “Go ahead,” continued the detective, “Ask me what you want to know. I can tell you have questions.”

The doctor raised his eyes. “I don’t need to know about it. You don’t have to tell me anything. I realize that is a very intimate detail of your life that you like to keep private.”

“I don’t purposely keep it private, John. But I also don’t boast and brag about it. I don’t feel the need to tell the story if no one asks. I assume no one is interested, so I don’t bother sharing.”

John nodded. He could respect that answer. After all, Sherlock did not have the most personable reputation. Why bother talking about something that might push people even farther away? John cleared his throat just as Sherlock picked up the pack of cigarettes. It was a complete coincidence, but Sherlock looked up and obviously took it as a signal that John wanted him to stop. The doctor noticed a slight blush to his friend’s face as he set the pack down, sans cigarette in hand.

Sherlock propped his elbows on the table, hung his head, and put his hands in his hair. The silence suddenly made him feel incredibly uncomfortable. 

Picking up on this, John shook his head and said, “Sherlock… No… I didn’t mean…” He sighed. “What did you mean, a side effect?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes without moving his hands or his head.

After a moment without answer, John was afraid that he had made a mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, even with Sherlock’s permission.

But then the detective pulled himself up and leaned back in his chair. He examined John, gauging how much to tell as to not scare him away.

“How much do you know?” he asked.

Now it was John’s turn to feel uncomfortable. But why? This wasn’t his life being revealed. They weren’t his secrets being analyzed by a doctor, by a concerned friend. “Um, I know very little, in fact. Really just that you had been in rehab sometime before I met you. And that both your brother and Greg know your past and are worried that it might repeat itself. And of course, that you relapsed while undercover… when I found you in the drug den.”

“First, it wasn’t a relapse. It was casework. Notice I didn’t need rehab again after that. And second,” Sherlock squinted, “Who’s Greg?”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “Jesus, Sherlock! Lestrade! GREG Lestrade!”

As realization hit, Sherlock replied, “Ohhh,” and cracked his own smile. Well at least the tension was broken.

“Ah yes,” Sherlock chuckled again. He rubbed the back of his neck, definitely uncomfortable again now that the real sharing was to begin. 

“Sherlock,” John interjected, “You really don’t need to tell me anything. And I promise I won’t ask about it again.”

“You didn’t ask, John. I offered.” He cleared his throat before his began. “Since Uni I have been known to indulge in cocaine and, on occasion, heroin.”

John waited for him to continue, but then realized what was just said. “Wait. Since Uni? But that’s… nearly twenty years.”

“Yes, well, I had a few years of sobriety. I didn’t use substances from when we met until the Magnussen case.”

“How long had you been out of rehab when we met?”

“Nineteen days. Hence the new apartment. And Lestrade’s drug-bust comment the day we met.” Sherlock flicked his eyes away and back, unsure of the reaction John would have.

But John simply nodded. Now that comment made more sense. That night it must have still been a fresh concern in the DI’s mind.

“So,” John continued, “You were clean those first few years. Our first few years, I mean.”

Sherlock reached for a cigarette, not even bothering to get approval from John. After he took his first drag, he responded, “More or less.”

“What does that mean?” Concern was starting to bubble in John’s stomach.

Another drag. “I used. Just a couple times. A few at the most. It was always when I knew you weren’t going to be home for a while. Even after I had grown to trust you, I still worried that you would report my usage back to my brother. I couldn’t have that. And I never used much those times. Just enough to stimulate my brain to help with deductions when it was in a slump.” Finally his eyes met John’s again. But, despite his brilliance, he could not read the doctor. 

“How much did you use before rehab?” came the flat response.

Sherlock tapped ash into the tray. “More than advisable.”

John gave a cold laugh. “Sherlock. Any amount of illicit drugs is more than advisable.”

The detective crossed his legs and his arms at once. It was a defensive move, and John knew this. But still the detective spoke, “I used a seven percent solution of cocaine whenever my brain needed a boost. It started as an experiment at Uni. I just wanted to see what would happen. And apparently I have what is called an addictive personality. I was hooked immediately, although at the time I would never have admitted that. I… It helped with my occasional depression.”

“I had no idea you suffered from depression.”

“Well, I should hope not. I work hard to not let people find out about that. I’d rather they knew about the drugs. Imagine if one of my enemies found out that I was not emotionally stable. They could destroy me.”

Although an odd thing to say, John could completely understand this logic. He waited for Sherlock to continue.

“From the end of Uni, or I should say when I left school, until I was about twenty-nine, I used cocaine almost daily.” Sherlock paused as he took a drag. “I’ve overdosed on cocaine four times. Bad math. Unfortunately, drug use causes one to make errors in calculations.” Sherlock put out the finished cigarette, waiting for a response. He immediately lit another.

“Four times?”

“On cocaine, yes. On heroin, only twice—.”

“Ha!” came a sarcastic laugh from John. “Only? Two heroin OD’s is more than the average person, Sherlock!”

“Yes well. I guess I’m not average.” Sherlock stared at John, contemplating if he should continue. He felt vulnerable and judged. And John picked up on this.

“I’m sorry,” replied the doctor. “I know this must be hard for you. Please continue. I mean, if you want to.”

Sherlock just shook his head. He coughed, “Of course. I understand that this isn’t light conversation. But I lived it so for me it’s hard not to talk about it as if it is ordinary life. For me it was ordinary for years.” He cleared his throat again and continued, “I didn’t use heroin often. But I also wasn’t as careful with it. I used it when I needed my brain to slow down. And unfortunately because I was generally in a rush to do this, I didn’t pay attention to the dose. Hence the two overdoses.”

Another bad coughing fit started, forcing Sherlock to double over in his chair. After it had subsided, John ran to get his medical bag. He pressed the stethoscope to Sherlock’s chest, receiving no argument.

“Sherlock. You are starting to get fluid in your lungs. It’s minor, but if you keep this up, you are going to need to go to hospital.”

“No.”

“Then you are going to stop smoking.” John glared at Sherlock, who simply gazed at the cigarette in his hand. Finally he put it out.

John nodded. “I suppose now is a good time to ask about the smoking. When did that take off?”

“Like I said, a side effect. Drugs and cigarettes for some reason go hand in hand. Cigarettes are like candy to drug users. Simple as that. Same for alcoholics.”

“Are you, um… are you telling me that you have been keeping a drinking problem too?” John’s eyes began to well up. He didn’t know if it was from all this information, or if it was because of the mention of drinking. He couldn’t handle it if that was true. He couldn’t handle another person in his life drinking themself to death.

But a flood of relief washed over John when Sherlock answered, “No. Never saw the point. I mean, I enjoy a scotch on occasion… very rare occasion. But alcohol not only slows the brain, it also muddies it. No point, in my opinion.” Sherlock saw John’s reaction. “Were you honestly worried about that?”

“I supposed. I am trying to process everything, Sherlock.” He wiped a stray tear away. “I understand how addiction works, but that still doesn’t make it easy to hear about when the user is a friend.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between the men for several minutes. Sherlock was afraid to continue and upset John further. And John was afraid to ask more questions and find out more that he didn’t not want to hear.

Finally John was the one to break the silence. “Cigarettes and drugs go hand and hand, you said. And it sounds like for you, so does depression.” He looked up and saw a nod. “So, if you are smoking so much now… should I be worried that you are using again? Or depressed?” John didn’t mean to, but his voice went very quiet with those last phrases.

Sherlock bit at a nail, a habit that John had not seen him do before, and again was worried.

The detective replied, “I sometimes smoke when I want to use. I know it seems counter-intuitive. But it helps me not use. I promise. I always used to smoke after a hit of whichever drug I chose that day. So when I smoke now, I am trying to tell my brain that the event is over. It’s bad logic, I know. But for the time being it works.”

“So you want to use right now?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And you’ve been smoking a lot recently, so the urges must be bad recently.” It was a statement more than a question.

Again Sherlock nodded. “I fear… that my casework on Magnussen and the re-emergence of Moriarty may have sparked something. I’m trying my hardest to stay clean, John.” 

With that Sherlock stood and walked away. John assumed that meant that the conversation was over. He was worried, of course, that bringing up this past might have triggered something in Sherlock. But he was also relieved that he had more information to go on.

A moment later Sherlock returned, carrying a book: Grey’s Anatomy in German, an odd choice. He handed the book to John who was confused.

“Sherlock… I don’t read German.”

“Just open it,” he replied as he sat back in his chair, watching the doctor intently.

John slowly opened the cover. Nothing special. Then he began flipping through pages. There was a hole cut into the book. And inside the hole were four small vials and four syringes. John’s head jerked up at Sherlock.

“Have you…?”

“No,” came the quick reply. “Not since last month when you found me. Well, once more after the case when I needed… help. Heroin, I’m afraid.”

John pulled out a vial and examined it. It looked so pure it could have been saline solution. He placed it back and closed the lid, but did not hand the book back over.

“Why should I trust you, Sherlock. You just showed me that you have been keeping drugs here. You just admitted that you have used relatively recently. Why should I not assume that you have been shooting up every day? Every time you can, when you know I won’t be around to catch you?” The questions were getting angrier and angrier, and John couldn’t stop that.

Sherlock simply took off his dressing gown and pushed back his sleeves. He laid his arms out on the table in front of John. Hesitantly, the doctor leaned forward. The arms were covered in scars. But most were so faint, one would not have noticed them if they weren’t looking for them and didn’t know what track marks looked like. Only a few were still pink, but even those were healing. Those must have been the ones from the Magnussen case.

John leaned back and Sherlock pulled down the sleeves. 

“So,” John started, “how much do Mycroft and Greg – Lestrade – know?”

“Most of it. Mycroft knew it was going on in school and after. Lestrade knew the first time he saw me. He ignored it until he had to repeatedly pick me up off the ground in alleyways. Finally he contacted Mycroft who set up the rehab. The agreement was that I could work for Lestrade as long as I stayed clean.” Sherlock paused. “He doesn’t know that I occasionally dabble in it still. At least, he has never said anything about it if he does know. Mycroft obviously knows about the usage with the Magnussen case. But as far as I’m aware neither knows of the heroin used after. If they did, I’m sure I would be sitting in a white room rather than 221B. Come to think of it, I’m sure Lestrade probably does know. He’s not as dumb as he looks. But he needs my help and can’t afford for me to go back to treatment.”

John thought carefully for his next words. “Do you want to stop? I mean all of it? The smoking, the sadness, and the … dabbling?”

“Yes.” The answer was simple and straightforward. John didn’t want to push it any further. There would always be more time.

Instead he asked, “Care for some tea?”

“Love some.”

FIN.


End file.
